One for Vaudeville
by Ostrich on a Rampage
Summary: When Crutchie gets lost in a snowstorm, he finds himself in a strange situation where only his musings on dinner can save him.


**So, this is simply an expansion on a memory that Crutchie mentions in Chapter 7 of Riding Palominos. I just liked the concept of how Crutchie met Medda Larkin so much I had to write a little one-shot about it. Although it is directly mentioned in Riding Palominos, you don't have to read RP because this is totally separate. I mean, I'd recommend it because... *shameless self promotion*. Anyway, hope you have as much fun reading this as I had fun writing it!**

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Crutchie didn't think he would ever grow sick of the snow. He loved sitting by the window in the newsie's Lodging House and watching the fat, lazy flakes drift down, coating the gray landscape in a soft, white blanket. It was like everything was new and beautiful and when the sun would come out the next day, it would glint off the snow, dazzling any observers with its sparkle. Crutchie loved standing outside as the snow fell, his arms outstretched and his head upturned to the heavens as they bestowed this simple gift. It was a soft reminder that some dreams can come true and Crutchie would never give that up. Sure, his leg would occasionally seize up with the cold snap, but the benefits greatly outweighed whatever discomfort his bad leg created.

However, today? Today, Crutchie was finding that his fondness for snow was wearing thin.

That morning, Crutchie had announced to the boys that it would snow and had reveled in the whoops and cheers that erupted amongst the newsies. He relished being the bearer of good news because, sometimes, among all the older boys, he felt lost. Not that Crutchie would ever voice the thought, but sometimes he felt as if there was almost no point to his existence there. So, when the snow started drifting down shortly after noon, Crutchie felt proud that his prediction had come true, smiling at the thought that when he returned to the Lodging House, the boys would be in the thick of a violent snowball fight. Not that he ever doubted whether the snow would come; his leg had been sore and twitching that morning, a sure sign of snow if Crutchie had ever felt one.

The pride and joy about his correct prediction was beginning to sour, though, as the snow continued to fall, heavier and heavier. People were leaving the streets in search of shelter and warmth, their thick coats pulled tight in protection against the biting chill. Crutchie tried to sell his last couple papes, but the passersby were too focused on getting out of the storm to pay any attention to a short, crippled boy with a pile of papes. With a sigh of defeat, Crutchie realized that he wasn't going to sell anything, not out in this weather. He shifted the crutch under his right arm and began the long trek home.

The snow was swirling faster, blocking out any light left in the sky and obstructing Crutchie's view of where he was going. But that was fine. He knew the city streets like the back of his hand and could probably navigate just as well if he were blind instead of crippled. Just then his crutch hit a patch of ice and the wooden rod flew from his grasp. Crutchie landed hard on his stomach, his chin connecting painfully with the pavement. Blinking tears from his eyes—not only had it hurt like the Dickens, but it was just plain embarrassing—Crutchie grabbed his crutch and levered himself to his feet. For a moment, Crutchie wished he was blind, because then his crutch wouldn't be slipping all over the place. On the other hand, though, if he couldn't see, he'd probably somehow manage to find every patch of ice in the entire city. Once he was sure that he had his feet back under him and he wouldn't slip again, Crutchie continued onward, now half-heartedly cursing the snow for creating ice.

"This ain't a snowstorm," Crutchie decided a couple of minutes later. "This is a blizzard." He could barely see a couple feet in front of him and the snow was pelting his face with more force than Crutchie felt was strictly necessary. Snow seemed so harmless when it was slow, but when it had been whipped into a blinding fury, it _hurt_. Squinting his eyes against the onslaught of frozen water, Crutchie continued making his way to where the Lodging House was.

Or, rather, to where he thought the Lodging House was. The snow was starting to mess with his sense of direction and Crutchie was feeling completely turned about. It reminded him of the time that all the newsies had pitched in to buy a piñata for Crutchie's birthday and he had been gripped with vertigo after being spun about. Crutchie snorted at that memory, plodding resolutely forward. This had to be the way. He couldn't have gotten… too… turned around…

Crutchie stared at the building he was standing in front of. "I have never seen this building before in my life," Crutchie muttered. "I am so very, very lost." The snow was raging on even more wildly and Crutchie shivered against the cold that pierced him, even through his thick wool coat. With a shrug, Crutchie decided to go into this mysterious Irving Hall that he had never heard of.

As he pulled open the door, Crutchie was blasted with a wave of warmth and the bubbling sound of laughter. With a grin, Crutchie decided that this place couldn't be so bad, if the atmosphere struck him as so completely joyous. It was as if, in an effort to banish the frigid weather raging outdoors, the occupants of Irving Hall were extra happy, extra boisterous, extra warm and friendly.

A black woman with vibrant purple eye lids and a violet dress that seemed to shift and shimmer in the lights stepped up to Crutchie. She shook her head at Crutchie's appearance. "I'll never really understand you actor types. You always seem to be running around town in some character or another." She examined Crutchie, before gesturing to a door down the hall. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get backstage so we can actually get started on time."

"Um, okay," Crutchie said, acquiescing, because he had no idea what else to do other than agree.

The door the lady had gestured to was surprisingly heavy and Crutchie slowly pulled it open. He peered inside, finding himself in a room filled with racks of strange, colorful clothing. High mirrors were staged on every wall of the room and some men and women were positioned in front of the mirrors, adding finishing touches to make-up and straightening costumes. Crutchie was in awe at the excitement that throbbed throughout the room, like a heart-beat, strong yet unnoticeable to those that were accustomed to it. Crutchie found it strangely invigorating.

He stepped up to one of the racks of clothing, fingering a midnight blue cloak that had a high collar that Crutchie could imagine all sorts of villains and heroes turning up against the cold. Grinning, Crutchie draped the cloak around his shoulders, admiring his appearance in a mirror. With this on, Crutchie could pretend that he was some prince from a far off land, traversing a snow-whipped land on a quest for a beautiful princess or the honor of slaughtering a steely-eyed dragon. Or, he could be a traveling minstrel, a mandolin strapped to his back and his cloak drawn around himself to keep out the raging cold as he made his way to the next tavern he'd be entertaining at.

"Hey, what are you doing back here?"

The shout tore Crutchie from his imaginary travels and he whipped around, coming face to face with a short, muscly man. His face was flushed with anger and his dark eyebrows drawn tightly across his forehead. "Yeah, you!" the man added, when Crutchie just stared at him.

"Uh, I was—" Crutchie began, but the man was advancing and so, Crutchie stumbled backwards, intent on getting away.

"Hey, get back here!" the man shouted, but Crutchie wasn't planning on listening.

Crutchie quickly pulled himself through the nearest door, hiding between folds of a large red curtain. He could hear the man whisper-shouting for him, but Crutchie wasn't stupid; he wasn't going to reveal his hiding place. The sounds of the angry man faded and Crutchie breathed a quick sigh of relief, before the curtains he had been hiding in began shifting, then moving.

As the curtains jerked away, Crutchie quickly realized that he was center stage and that there were about a hundred pairs of eyes fixated on him. "H-hi," Crutchie began, giving a short wave to the audience. The entire theater was completely silent. Crutchie swallowed nervously and worried that even the person in the back of the theatre could hear what small amount of saliva he managed to force down his dry throat. He gripped the edge of his cloak, before deciding to reenact the only scene from a play that he knew. With a loud voice, Crutchie cried out,

"To be, or not to be. That is the question."

But the rest of the famous quotation immediately fled Crutchie's memory and he found himself standing, frozen before a crowd of people staring at him, unblinking. Unable to think of anything else to do in that moment, Crutchie began improvising with dramatic gestures and well-chosen emphasis on certain words and phrases, quickly getting lost in his performance and not noticing the crowd before him in the excitement of his sudden soliloquy.

"Followed shortly by 'man, what is for dinner?'

This question shapes the human experience.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The bread crumbs and scraps of miniscule dinners,

Or to take arms against a sea of small meals,

And by opposing end them? To eat: to gorge;

No more; and by 'to gorge' to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand loud stomach growls

That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish'd. To eat: to gorge;

To gorge: perchance to barf: ay, there's the rub;

For in that feast of feasts the amount of food

That we can fit in our own starved-shrunk stomachs,

Must give us pause: there's the respect

That makes calamity of all that food;

For who would bear the strawberries, deep red,

The chocolate flakes, the sweet and sour sauce,

The slabs of butter that, hearty, make a bite,

The rich, exotic spices from Orient

That add depth and horizon to a meal

When he himself might his own dinner make

With the basest foods? Who would bland meals bear,

Where taste and appearance sway no appetite,

But for the dread of dangerous rich foods that

Block the arteries and clog up the blood stream,

Stopping the heart in a rush of delicious,

And makes us rather bear those dull dinners

Than try the sugars and spices of this world?

Thus knowledge does make cowards of us all;

And thus the adventure of trying new foods

Is hung o'er with the pale cast of worries,

And enterprises of fancy food and drink

With this regard their ideas turn awry,

And lose the aspect of fun.

Crutchie swept his cloak around himself, bowing lowly. The audience erupted into applause and Crutchie fought back a grin at the sound. "Hey!" Crutchie's eyes jerked upward and he made eye contact with the angry man from earlier. "There he is!" Crutchie quickly noticed that the angry man had found some angry friends and they were all pointing at him. The black lady had joined them and she was frowning at him.

With a wave good-bye, Crutchie limped off the stage, to even more cheers and applause. He was chased backstage and Crutchie quickly searched for somewhere to hide, nearly tripping over a poorly placed can of paint on the floor. "Hey," a familiar voice complained. "Watch where you're goin'."

Crutchie stopped short, forgetting that he was running from Angry Number One and Friends in his shock. "Jack?" Crutchie queried, beyond surprised to find his friend here at this strange place.

"Crutchie?" Jack asked, looking up, equally surprised to find his friend here. Jack's eyes instantly fixated on the strange, unfamiliar attire. "What are you wearing?"

"Uh," Crutchie began, glancing down and remembering the cloak wrapped around his shoulders. "A costume?"

"I see that, but why?"

"You know, I don't really—" Crutchie was interrupted by a shout of "there he is!" Crutchie glanced back wildly, before confessing, "I've gotta hide, Jack; they'se after me!"

"Who is—" Jack began to ask, but was interrupted as the angry men and the black lady found the pair.

The angry man grabbed Crutchie by his arm, jerking the smaller boy backwards, probably more violently than strictly necessary. "Here he is, Ms. Larkin."

"Hey!" Jack said, standing up angrily as Crutchie nearly lost his balance in the angry man's grip. "You don't have to be so rude."

The black lady—Ms. Larkin, the angry man had called her—glanced at Jack. "Do you know this boy, Jack?"

Crutchie looked in surprise between Jack and the lady. He hadn't realized that Jack knew these people, but realized that that made the most sense. Jack was sitting here painting, after all. And no one was mad at him, either.

Jack snorted. "This is Crutchie. He's my best friend."

"What is he doing here?" Ms. Larkin asked.

"I don't know; why don't you ask him yourself, Medda," Jack suggested, shrugging.

Suddenly, everyone was staring at Crutchie, expecting an explanation. "Well, it was snowing out there and I got sorta lost so I came inside the first building I saw but I ran into you and you sent me through that door and I didn't know what to do so I just went in there and I saw this cloak and I thought it looked mighty fancy so I put it on and I was pretending I was a prince or a minstrel and then this fellow came in and he yelled at me so I ran and hid in the curtain but when it opened I had to say something so I tried quoting that one play that everyone knows but I think I messed it up a little and then—"

Medda Larkin cut Crutchie off, laughing. Crutchie thankfully took the opportunity to take a breath; he had been rambling on breathlessly, his nerves speeding up his words. "Messed it up?" she asked, her eyes twinkling.

"Well, I got distracted and all I could think about was dinner, so I kinda talked about that, too. I don't think that's part of the play, though."

"I wouldn't say 'messed it up,' Medda said, gesturing back to where the stage was. "Did you hear that applause? You made _Hamlet_ much more amusing and relatable."

"I, uh… _Hamlet_?" Crutchie asked, entirely confused.

"You can release him, Richard," Medda said and the angry man reluctantly released his grip on Crutchie's upper arm. Crutchie rubbed his arm where Richard had been holding him, glancing anxiously between everyone. "And, yes," Medda continued. " _Hamlet_. That's what you were quoting. Or, sort of quoting."

"Oh, uh, cool," Crutchie found himself saying, not entirely sure what Medda Larkin expected of him.

Medda was nodding. "In fact, I'd even go so far as to say that you greatly improved the soliloquy for the average audience member."

"I, uh—what?" Crutchie asked.

Richard seemed equally surprised. "Improved?"

"Have you ever heard a response as that to Shakespeare in this theater before?" When Richard didn't answer Medda's question, she turned back to Crutchie. "If you're interested, you could be here every week, performing your own version of Shakespeare."

"You're—you're offering me a job?" Crutchie asked.

Richard was just as confused. "You're offering him a job?"

"Of course."

"That's a very nice offer," Crutchie said. "But, I'm a newsie and I don't really think I'd fit in out here on stage or nothing fancy like that."

Medda nodded. "Yes. I was afraid you'd say that. Well, you're always welcome here, if you ever need to find refuge from a storm. Just ask for Medda Larkin." She winked at Crutchie. "Then we won't have to chase you around backstage. It'd make it a little easier on us."

"Oh, uh, thank you," Crutchie said. Just as Medda was about to walk away, however, he called out nervously. "Uh, Medda?"

"Yes?"

"I hate to ask, but is it entirely possible that maybe—I mean, only if you're okay with this—could I hopefully keep this cloak?"

Medda smiled. "Of course. Think of it as payment for your performance earlier today."

"Thank you," Crutchie said, gratefully. After the adults had left, Crutchie sat down next to Jack, examining the canvas his friend was painting. The canvas held a muted orange sunset that practically glowed with life. "Santa Fe?" Crutchie asked.

Jack ignored the question, fingering the cloak Crutchie was wearing. "You ain't gonna join vaudeville?" he teased.

"Not today, Jack. Not today."

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 **Well, I hoped you liked it. I know I did. All but the iambic pentameter. What the heck, Shakespeare. Ah, well, don't forget to leave reviews!**


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